


Again

by Chekhov



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Live Together (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Kink, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, They're both switches and nothing matters, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 03:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21501118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhov/pseuds/Chekhov
Summary: “You want me to WHAT?” Crowley had asked. Yelped. Squeaked. Whichever way you choose to describe it, the noise that escaped his throat at 9:08am the previous morning was without a doubt full of a lot of doubt.“I’ve been thinking about it,” Aziraphale had said, not even bothering to slow down in order to navigate the conversation. Like Crowley had learned the ins and outs of London in order to be able to violate its streets at his own (breakneck) pace, Aziraphale had gotten quite comfortable at careening his way through their discussions in a similar manner. The only difference was the lack of miracles it took to keep everyone involved alive and unharmed (Of course, Crowley would vehemently argue this point if interviewed on his own opinion, given the amount of times he’d been very close to discorporating from Aziraphale’s lack of Fucks To Give post-Apocalypse.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 553





	Again

**Author's Note:**

> Submitting myself to the mortifying ordeal of being known... through my kinks.
> 
> Yes, this is a PWP spanking fic. Listen................. I have no excuse.
> 
> Aziraphale has a vulva if you squint but it's VERY vague because it's not the focus of this. You could read it either way.

“Crowley?”

“Hn?”

“You can... You can do it harder, you know. If you’d like.”

There is a pause - the silence weighs with a sudden lapse in the heavy breathing that has, up until this point, been accompanying the orchestra of unfolding events. 

When Crowley finally inhales, his breath shakes. It sounds not unlike a windchime of nerves and anticipation. That is not surprising - the demon’s physical form, if it had a label, would read something to that effect anyway. 50% anxiety. 50% poorly put together limbs that look like they should make noise when they move against each other. 

“You sure, angel?” the windchime-demon-hybrid asks, tone still on the precipice of a panic-stricken quake. 

This calls for a pause, so Aziraphale gives himself one and takes his chance to adjust his position on the bed. “Mm, yes. I think so.” His own voice is steady - for now - but some pink is creeping into his cheeks. Not that he can see it, but he can... Well, he can feel it. Mostly, he feels warmth. It isn’t altogether unpleasant. A different sort of experience; an exploration. That is what he had been after - new horizons. New experiences. New... pleasures.

His poor, tormented windchime sighs another nervous shudder. “You gotta say it. We had an agreement,” he mutters. Even without looking, the angel can more than hear the color of Crowley’s face in his voice. Succumbing to temptation, he glances over his shoulder and - sure enough - the demon is red as a tomato. It is a pleasant gradient that starts at its brightest in his face and reaches down to his chest, almost tickling his dark nipples.

Aziraphale’s mouth twitches into a smile and Crowley - bless him (goodness, not that he would ever! It’s just a figure of speech. He likes him precisely as he is!) - looks away with a scowl, shifting from one foot to another, oscillating (presumably) with the same velocity as his resolve to their current ‘arrangement’. There’s something about it that resembles a hot-footed dance in a church some 80 years ago, and the angel wonders for a moment if he’s somehow blessed the floor on accident instead.

“You tapping out?” Crowley asks, glaring stubbornly at a wall as if that’s where Aziraphale is, instead of right in front of him. As if maybe the wall would be easier to convince. “Because I can-- We can stop if you...”

“Again,” the angel interrupts, and feels a pleasant spark of satisfaction when he sees Crowley twitch in two places at once. It somehow makes it that much easier to not be embarrassed. Even if they are rather unfamiliar in this situation, there are still some landmarks of Crowley’s arousal he can cling to as crutches. The erection reaching out through the demon’s tight pants is, for example, a good indication that they are doing _something_ right. Even if Crowley is ridiculously hesitant about this. 

Even now, his eyes are flickering just barely to the bed - the display of utter debauchery there - and hurriedly jerking away again like Aziraphale’s half-naked form is a hot stove he is being forced to touch. A stove probably would have been easier, in fact, given his demonic predisposition to tolerating heat. Tolerating fully consensual kinks on the other hand is, apparently beyond him. “Are you sure--” 

“Crowley, good lord, we’ve been over this. You are never this careful when the roles are reversed, and I plan to hold it entirely against you. Just do it already.” Aziraphale rearranges himself back on the bed again in order to release his long-suffering partner from his judgemental gaze. He hopes it will serve as some encouragement. Perhaps Crowley is just shy. (No, there is no ‘perhaps’ about it. In certain ways, Crowley is _painfully_ shy, against all odds. It’s usually endearing, but there’s a limit to his patience.) “I can handle it. _Again_.”

Crowley sucks in a startled breath through his teeth, but some part of him buckles. Thankfully it isn’t his knees, though there is some precedent for it when Aziraphale’s voice takes on _that_ tone. He has, over the past several (hundreds of) years, developed a bit of a... Pavlovian reaction to Aziraphale’s demands. Namely - whatever Aziraphale wants, Aziraphale gets. 

Even when what he wants is a spanking.

For a brief millisecond there is a soft whistle of something cutting through the air. Sound travels faster than sensation, you see. There is a delay between when the contact of skin on skin is made, and when one actually feels the result of the velocity and force put into the motion. It is the silence of the nerves right before they light up in beautiful fireworks of pain, stinging their way through the entire system to Aziraphale’s brain and back again, heating up the curve of his ass which has just a moment ago been slapped so deliciously.

“Ah,” the angel gasps, and closes his eyes, losing another small part of himself to the sensation. “That is _perfect_ , my dear.” He takes a moment to bask in it, and then bids: “Again.”

Behind him, Crowley makes a choked noise of arousal - and obeys.

***

“You want me to _what_ ?” Crowley had asked. Yelped. Squeaked. Whichever way you choose to describe it, the noise that escaped his throat at 9:08am the previous morning was without a doubt full of a _lot of_ doubt. 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Aziraphale had said, not even bothering to slow down in order to navigate the conversation. Like Crowley had learned the ins and outs of London in order to be able to violate its streets at his own (breakneck) pace, Aziraphale had gotten quite comfortable at careening his way through their discussions in a similar manner. The only difference was the lack of miracles it took to keep everyone involved alive and unharmed (Of course, Crowley would vehemently argue this point if interviewed on his own opinion, given the amount of times he’d been very close to discorporating from Aziraphale’s lack of Fucks To Give post-Apocalypse. Case in point - now. Right at that precise moment. What Aziraphale had just suggested). 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” repeated the angel once more, habitually aware of Crowley’s inability to keep up when things got any more emotionally intense than their daily discussions of where to take lunch. “And I mean, it’s a lot like eating spicy foods, isn’t it? It’s not _supposed_ to be pleasant - plants produce capsaicin in order to discourage other animals from eating it - but humans consume it anyway! I rather enjoy spicy foods, and I know you do as well, so it can’t be that far of a jump to other measures of seeking sexual fulfilment, now can it?” 

Crowley’s mouth formed several elaborate shapes that were well-suited to cartoon characters. Then his audio track seemed to catch up to the animation. “I-- Are you-- Seriously suggesting I--”

“Spank me, yes,” deadpanned Aziraphale. He then paused to allow the other a few more moments to reboot, as if Crowley was his old Macintosh - he was an angel after all, and kindness was in his nature. Meanwhile, he set his teacup down on the side table and folded his hands on his lap before glancing back to see if there was any progress on the demonic front. 

Predictably enough, progress was not had. Crowley was staring at him - the intensity of it was palpable from behind the tiny dark circles covering up his eyes. It probably helped that Aziraphale could all but see his brain melt and drip out his ears. 

Alright, he was an angel, but he was no saint. He wanted to get this over with. “I don’t see why this is so shocking. We’ve done plenty more daring things up until now. And I certainly don’t need to remind you, my dear, but you are in no position to judge me when you’re so inclined towards the masochistic end of bedroom activities yourself.” 

“Judging?” Crowley sputtered, a few octaves above his usual tenor. “Who’s judging? I’m not-- I’m not _judging_ , I just-- you’ve never--”

Aziraphale sighed. “If you’re really so against it, I won’t push you.”

The sputtering doubled its pace. “Wh-- I didn’t say that! I didn’t, I just--” Crowley was attempting to combine his poorly rigged attempts at talking with getting up from his sprawl on the couch, but he was clearly having trouble. To his credit, picking up those long limbs seemed to require just as much coordination as juggling 4 batons on fire. It was coordination Crowley did not have in his current flustered state. “You-- You never expressed any interest in anything like that! Have you done this before? Is this something you’re into? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you tell me? Did you try to tell me?” He yanked off his glasses and unleashed a terrified and uncertain, desperate look upon the angel. “Was I not listening?”

“For the love of...” Aziraphale took a deep breath for the both of them. “Crowley, please, you’re overreacting. I haven’t been keeping anything from you. I’m simply trying to open myself up to new things. Isn’t that what the whole new Arrangement was about?” He motioned vaguely to the wooden-beamed ceiling of their living room in their cottage, to the stacks of his books in the corner next to Crowley’s plants, to the staircase leading up to _their_ bedroom. “New beginnings, new ideas, new...” He paused and met Crowley’s eyes again and couldn’t help but smile warmly. “New... experiences.”

Taking his cue like a seasoned actor, Crowley went bright red. “Ngk,” he said. 

Aziraphale dropped his hands back into his lap and laced his fingers together again. “My dear, really. We’ve been officially ‘together’ for nearly a year now. Arguably, we’ve been courting one another for much longer. The blushing virgin look is not especially convincing when I’ve seen facial expressions of that same color on your face after a fourth orgasm.”

Crowley choked out another noise and finally seemed to succeed in finding a somewhat upright sitting position. “‘S not like I’m against it,” he grunted, rubbing his face and then subtly leaving his hands there, never coming back up for eye contact. “You know I’m up for anything angel, we’ve talked about this. I just didn’t figure you’d be... into it.”

“I won’t know until I try, will I?” Aziraphale hummed primly and reached for his book, abandoned on the table. He licked the tip of his finger and paged through until he was back at the chapter he’d left off at. “So it’s decided then. Next time you’re amiable, we’ll give it a go. We can do one of those playing-roles you enjoy so much if it makes it easier.”

Across from him the demon on the couch cleared his throat, muttered “Roleplays...” and not-so-subtly crossed his legs. 

To Aziraphale, it seemed like a good sign. 

***

There’s a tipping point to their evening activities. A specific moment in time when Crowley slowly begins to loosen, to undo the coiled spring tension of himself and instead give his nervous energy a different outlet. 

Aziraphale is happy to comply - or at least, he’s more or less satisfied. He’s not sure if happy is the correct word yet, but he’s quite enjoying this more than he thought. 

“Ag--” His voice catches in his throat this time, and his fingers curl into the bedsheets on their own, seemingly unconcerned with what their owner intends to do. “Again...” he gasps out, finally.

It’s no longer a surprise when the hand comes down against his ass, catching the soft, tender curve of his bottom in another merciless smack. Everything inside him lights up - like it had been for the last five hits - in a sweet and coiling heat of pain mixed with a strangely unique flavor of satisfaction. The idea that he’s handling it, holding out, _taking it_. There’s a strength to the challenge of holding himself still, to not letting too many whimpers loose. 

“You almost sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” Crowley accuses. He’s perhaps going for ‘scolding’ but instead overshooting and ending up in ‘secretly thrilled’. Aziraphale isn’t disappointed by this. Something about the soft, excited exhale of the other behind him is equally thrilling in all its parts. “Do you _like_ being spanked, angel?”

Through his diligently read lines, (they are likely ad libbed, though there is a chance of them being nicked from some poorly written romance novel the angel has pointedly left laying around the cottage for ‘inspiration’) Crowley has stalked closer. His hand lands on Aziraphale’s ass, but softer this time, merely touching. His actions contradict his voice’s betrayed nervousness - he knows just how to stroke tenderly, warmly, along the slightly swollen, reddened skin, eliciting a startled jerk of the hips from his partner. Aziraphale, too distracted with the suddenly gentle sensation, feels his mouth part unbidden and release a moan he’s been holding on to.

“Or perhaps you like it... because you know you deserve it...?” the demon purrs, leaning over him. His cock, still fully clothed, nonetheless bids greeting quite boldly to the space between the angel’s asscheeks. Its simple friction is enough to make Aziraphale gasp again and fist the bedsheets. 

“Crowley,” he breathes, and feels the other press closer into him. The head of his cock is trying, very obviously, to push its way out of his tight pants, and it only makes Aziraphale leak harder in an echoing desperation. 

"Greedy angel, aren't you?" Crowley purrs, the script having finally taken root. His voice is fond, warm in its chiding. “Always needing something to nibble on. Always biting off more than you can chew. Even though you should know better..."

“Mmm, I really should,” Aziraphale moans, toes curling in pleasure. His stomach flips excitedly at the confession, something he never thought he would be able to enjoy. Heaven scolding him for being a bad angel is about as far from pleasant as he can get. Crowley, on the other hand... Crowley - his Crowley - sliding his warm palm to Aziraphale’s neck and threading his fingers into his hair lovingly and taking control, feels like a sweet surrender to a higher power. It’s absolutely blasphemous without a doubt, but he can’t find it in himself to care right at that moment because he feels a soft pressure on the back of his head holding him down, grounding him in a blissfully inescapable way. 

“Think you should be punished, do you?” Crowley asks, voice low. 

It’s embarrassing how quickly Aziraphale finds himself answering - how eager he sounds even to his own ears. “I-I might need a bit of a... Seeing to... Y-yes...”

Crowley swallows loudly behind him and his own breath hitches. “Ask me, then.”

Without remembering to be ashamed, Aziraphale presses the side of his face into the bedsheets and hikes his ass up into the air. “A-again,” he begs.

The hand comes down - another smack of punctuation against his ass. Without meaning to, the angel bucks into the mattress on recoil and whimpers obscenely. “Yes...” he voices, the aftershocks of the sting still lighting up his most sensitive areas. Everything feels too tight inside of him and the vicious contact of Crowley’s palm is like a key, working open the valves, releasing pressure he didn’t even know he had.

"Naughty angel," the demon rasps with more vigor now. "You've really earned this, you know. Especially after what you've been doing to me these past couple of weeks... Don't you know angels are supposed to be kind? But you've been downright torturous to me. Tying me up, holding me down, fucking me like a madman until dawn."

They shudder in unison at the memory, a sweet edge to the spice of the current activity and Aziraphale finds it in himself to tilt his head under Crowley’s hand to look up at him.

The demon is a delight above him - despite minimal debauchery on his part, he already looks the same way as after Aziraphale has taken him against the kitchen counter (a repeated offense the angel is guilty of. It’s not premeditated! There’s just something about Crowley in an apron that drives him wild.) His hair is a right mess - presumably he’s been tugging at it out of nervousness - and his face is flushed, his lips bitten red and eyes flooded with amber. 

“It’s only fair that you get your revenge, then,” Aziraphale says, looking up through his lashes. He sees Crowley’s throat bob eagerly and then the other is diving down to him, crushing their lips together in a hard and sloppy kiss that Aziraphale has to twist into. 

“You sure?” the demon breathes against his lips. “You don’t want to stop? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmurs to him, swelling with impossibly more emotion than he can manage. Sometimes he loves Crowley so much it’s painful. Suddenly, the whole spanking idea is not so far fetched. A welcome metaphor for what’s going on in his own heart, a catharsis translated through all its mediums, felt in all the ways a human body can feel, the way it’s meant to be. “It hurts wonderfully,” he assures. “If I need to, I’ll use the safeword. Now do carry on.” 

The encouragement seems to punch any remaining doubt out of Crowley. He trails soft lips up Aziraphale’s jaw and stops at his ear. For a moment, the fingers in the soft white curls tighten again. “What shall I do to you?” he breathes. 

This quote is not new - in fact, it’s something Aziraphale himself has said aplenty in reversed circumstances. But like the first time switching with Crowley, this shift in their power dynamics is doubly exciting. He realizes now why the demon always writhes underneath him and swears up a storm at hearing the words. The utter surrender, the ability to give someone the entirety of yourself, is dizzying. A whole multitude of possibilities, a sweets store of unlocked cabinets. “Whatever you think I deserve,” he moans, shivering with anticipation. 

“Angel, I think you deserve everything,” Crowley tells him. He tucks his lips behind the other’s ear for a moment and then licks a hot line down his neck and to his shoulder. “And I mean absolutely everything... which is exactly what I’m prepared to give you. The good and the bad.” Aziraphale feels teeth grazing his skin, but he’s only half conscious from the sudden onslaught of pleasure coiling somewhere inside him. “I’ll have a go at your ass until you’re begging me to stop, until you’re at your limit... and then I’ll give you the softest fucking you could ever imagine.”

“God, _yes_ ,” groans Aziraphale weakly, thighs trembling from the tension of keeping them squeezed together. He doesn’t even realize he’s rutting into the bed until Crowley grabs his ass and stills him. “Please--” he amends with a whine that’s far less dignified than he had planned. 

“Good.” It’s high praise despite being simple, somehow makes Aziraphale’s stuttering heart soar. “You’re going to be good for me from now on, aren’t you? Now be good for me a bit longer, love, show me how well you take it.”

The promise of what’s coming is clear as day, so it’s not at all a surprise. But Aziraphale, the last of his usually steely self-restraint now undone, still cries out when the next swat comes down on his already-aching thighs. The next one is even more punishing, and he almost jerks away before grabbing for Crowley’s arm at the last moment and pressing his face into the bed. He has no time to recover between the blows anymore because the demon is being, for lack of a better descriptor, absolutely wicked. With one hand pressing down the angel into the mattress to hold him still, his other is driving repeated punishments into Aziraphale’s already-stinging soft skin.

“Crowl--” Aziraphale stutters, and the next hit catches him mid-word, dissolving the other’s name into a yelp. “Ah-- Oh it’s... Crowley, plea--” He cries out again and then moans harder, pressing his face into the mattress. 

“Shh, love,” Crowley murmurs - he’s leaning closer than Aziraphale anticipated. His voice is just right there, so soothing in contrast to the waves of taut soreness creeping up the angel’s legs. “You’re being so good. You can handle a little more for me, can’t you?”

Aziraphale sucks in a startled breath, feeling himself twitch in response. He’s shocked that he’s managed to stay turned on through the whole thing, but somehow, the heat isn’t dissipating. Instead it’s feeding into the tightness inside his lower abdomen, and he’s practically clenching with need at the lack of contact. Fingers - on him, inside of him - it doesn’t matter, it’s still a need, and the wires are so crossed by now one might mistake them for a brave attempt at a knitted scarf. 

“C-Crowley,” he gasps and shudders. He can feel the other slide a warm, gentle palm down the line of his back and crook two fingers against the split of his ass. Without meaning to, he pushes his hips upward to meet it at a better angle and hears the demon chuckle knowingly. 

“I suppose you want a reward for coming this far?” he purrs. 

Aziraphale is nodding almost before he’s finished speaking, head moving against the bedsheets he’s twisted up under him. “P-please,” he begs. “Darling, please, I need you-- I need...”

“Alright,” hums Crowley. “But we’re not done. Just a small break, and then you still have a bit more to take from me. Got that?”

The angel moans a reply into his fist, and then squeezes his eyes shut tighter when he feels the fingers slide down, curling and seeking knowingly. He must feel how desperate Aziraphale is because he slips in two at once, knocking another whimper from his victim with the angle of the practiced thrust. The knuckles push their way past the tight knot of clenched muscle which immediately grips them, unwilling to be empty again so soon. When it’s time to drag them out, there’s clear resistance. The angel is a gasping mess, whimpering into the wet spot of drool on the fabric under his cheek and twitching his hips back. 

“You are absolutely obscene, you greedy thing,” says Crowley above him, and it’s clear from his strained voice that he’s having as much trouble holding it together as Aziraphale is. “This is supposed to be your punishment and you’re still moaning for it?” He huffs a soft breath and then pushes the fingers back in. 

“Oh, fuck-- Fuck, yes,” Aziraphale sobs, finding his voice again in a fit of inspiration from how good it feels. “Yes, please! Crowley, please...!”

“Greedy,” Crowley gasps, but thrusts in as asked, rocking Aziraphale back into the bed with the force of it. “Lustful--” Another thrust - even deeper in now, making Aziraphale see white and tremble uncontrollably. “Naughty angel--” He curls his fingers and a wail rips out of the other. “I’m nowhere near done with you, am I? It’s going to take a bit more to teach you a lesson.”

Aziraphale’s eyes almost roll back into his head as the fingers are abruptly slipped out of him, and immediately he’s clenching wetly, trying his best to protest against the waves of pleasure rippling through his entire body. “Crow--Crowley... Please, please, please,” he keens, no longer sure what he’s even asking for.

Thankfully, Crowley knows well enough to take a fairly educated guess and hauls him halfway over his lap and then spanks him again - if it’s possible, even harder.

The responding noise is not one Aziraphale is particularly proud of; it’s raw and animal-like. He ruts shamelessly against the demon’s knee and somewhere in there he has a hunch he ends up whining ‘ _more_ ’ pitifully, because Crowley delivers. He delivers five more, in fact, each of them punctuated with an accusation. 

“And _this_ is for the time you fucked me in the garden and nearly had the neighbors see,” he hisses, the assault creating a cherry-pink handprint on Aziraphale’s cheeks. “And this-- is for the time you bent me over the couch and...”

“Ah! Darling... Oh, fu...fuck...! Crowley--” the angel cries, a disjointed half-audible string of words as a background static for the steady rhythms of the slaps raining down on his already-tortured thighs. He scrambles for purchase on the bed, bites his lip to contain yet another noise and then jerks his hips up as he feels the orgasm curling up inside of him completely unbidden. His muscles clench, pressure building impossibly higher as the blows don’t let up. The pain alone is enough to create the necessary stimulation, and he can already see stars behind his eyes, feel himself coming undone. 

“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,” he sobs, trembling hard enough to make the mattress springs creak. 

“Shh, love,” Crowley murmurs to him. He’s closer again, and then he’s further away. A pair of strong, wiry arms wiggle their way under Aziraphale and he finds himself suddenly pulled up onto the bed proper and flipped onto his back. For a split second his tormented ass comes in contact with the cold sheets and he immediately yanks it away, arching up to avoid the contact of skin. Then, as if unsure of what he truly wants, he pushes them back down again and hisses in satisfaction of the sting. His head is neither here nor there - not something he’s used to without the solidness of Crowley’s hold on him, keeping him all there, keeping him together. 

“Crowley,” he whimpers again, and the demon - as if summoned - swims into his field of vision, face haloed by a beautiful crown of red curls. 

“I’m here,” Crowley murmurs. “You did so well for me, angel,” he soothes, and leans down to connect their lips. His hands cup Aziraphale’s face, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry. Was it too much?” he asks, leaking worry now.

The gentleness is startling, but welcome. “I’m alright,” Aziraphale breathes, and swallows. “It was-- it was good but... But I need-- I need you... I--” He can’t articulate the mixture of feelings within him - both pleasure and ache, tangled up in one another and fused through the shared ancestry of primal stimulation. He needs more of it - more of whatever the most primitive form of touch is. Be it pain or pleasure, it’s all the same need for friction. To feel _something_ , to come undone from the tight knot he’s been done into.

“Shh,” Crowley says again and reaches down and slides his hands under Aziraphale’s hips. Another gasp tears out of him, but he twitches harder at the mixed arousal. He’s so close - he can practically feel the pulses of the not-quite finished orgasm. “You deserve everything you want. You did so well,” the demon promises. He hikes Aziraphale’s knees up over his shoulders and reaches down to release his cock from the confines of those stupidly tight jeans and then - _finally!_ thinks Aziraphale - guides himself in. 

The fingers alone had been divine - with the extra heat of his throbbing, well-spanked ass, the breaching head of Crowley’s erection spreading him apart is almost too much. 

The angel trembles terribly under him and clutches for purchase on the closest thing he can reach - those broad shoulders, drawn in edged lines like a too-dry paintbrush. “Crowley,” he moans, “Oh, that’s-- I’m--”

“Not yet love,” Crowley says - or rather, tries to say. It comes out raspy, and very possibly not quite in English, but that hasn’t ever been an issue. “Not yet, just a little longer...” He licks his lips and screws his eyes shut, face red from strain, from holding back. His hips twitch for a moment and then slowly, agonizingly, he pushes deeper into Aziraphale. 

“I can’t, I _can’t--_ ” keens the angel in reply, nails dragging up into the red hair and fisting it instead - a familiar instinct when he’s looking for his long-lost control, but it’s very little help now. If anything, it makes matters so much _harder_. Specifically for Crowley, who makes a noise like someone’s just punched him, and stutters his thighs into the other in a momentary loss of moderation

“Hng,” he grunts. “Angel, you’re gonna make me--”

“Cum, yes,” Aziraphale pants. “That’s the idea...” He’s suddenly much more comfortable - this is well-known territory. Even with Crowley’s handprints all over his thighs and the other’s cock buried deep within him, he’s used to taking the lead. “My dear, if you don’t mind me saying... We aren’t finished with my punishment. Now fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me for all those times I fucked you.”

“You’re... an absolute... terror,” replies Crowley, in the voice of a man who’s just been offered water in a desert. But lo - he obeys. His hips withdraw just a fraction and then he’s spreading Aziraphale impossibly wider again. Knees braced to the mattress, hands clutching the other’s hips to steady him, the demon begins to fuck into him at a still-slow but much less torterous pace.

It’s incredible, thinks Aziraphale when he has the ability to do so - in brief respites between making undignified noises when the other’s cock sheaths in him - how such an insignificant amount of spanking can get him in this state. He is an angel, a Principality, for goodness’ sake! He should probably have a higher tolerance for pain than this. But it isn’t about the pain, really, he supposes. It’s about the submission - the utter surrender to the other, giving them full run of you, the ability to humiliate and soothe, and allowing yourself to feel all the emotions that are contained therein. 

“Oh, Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, like that...!” he cries out, clenching around the other and pulling harder on his hair to urge him forward. The pace picks up very promptly at that. The demon thrusts into him at a maddening pace, hands grasping for purchase on Aziraphale’s sweat-slick skin. He grabs his ass for a moment and Aziraphale arches, moaning in shock. “Oh, that’s--”

“You... like that?” Crowley gasps in between thrusts. He looks up - Aziraphale’s hand has fallen away from his neck and the angel is now grasping the headboard for purchase. “Told you I wasn’t done, didn’t I?” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale whimpers, and then jumps when a smack catches his outer thigh. There must be some miracle involved at that angle, but it’s hardly a concern, because there are other, more important facts at stake. Such as the fact that the sting brings him right back to the edge of his orgasm. “Please,” he hiccups, all but coming undone. 

“This is for that time you got yourself arrested for some crepes,” gasps Crowley and spanks him again. “And this is for that time you almost let yourself be discorporated by Nazis--” Another smack against his throbbing thigh. 

Aziraphale feels his body convulse, muscles tightening impossibly, and bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees stars. He can hear Crowley talking again, but at that point it doesn’t matter because finally he’s slamming into him again. The cock spreads him open again and again, jackhammering into Aziraphale, waves of heat rolling off of both of them as his body shudders its way through a firework of an orgasm. It starts off where they are connected and ends in his toes and the tips of his wings on another, unseen plane. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he gasps, and a second later feels the other pulse inside of him. It’s enough to send another full-body shudder of tightness through him, and Crowley keens loudly in response, clearly feeling it on the tail ends of his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, angel,” he whimpers a second later. “Fuck, fuck... You’re so good...”

“That’s my line, darling,” says Aziraphale. His voice is still a bit raw. 

He has to blink himself back from the daze of it, and he’s hardly even conscious to register the fact that at some point they roll over to their sides and Crowley lays down beside him, pressed habitually flush against his side. For a few blissful, warm moments there is nothing but the afterglow. Then, voice still sticky with the color of their pleasures, the demon finds it in him to start up the banter again:

“For someone who was so concerned with being good, you sure react well to being told you’re bad,” he says, and then grins like an idiot, very happily. It rather suits him, and Aziraphale would be more than willing to say how much he adores that expression on him if he wasn’t busy trying not to blush to cover up his own realization at how true that is. 

“Yes, well,” he mutters, glancing at the mess of red hair on his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. “Speak for yourself. Found it therapeutic, did you? Didn’t know you had such a great deal of repressed issues with how I... take my crepes.”

Crowley lifts his head just a bit to properly measure him with a dry look. “It’s not about the crepes and you know it, you fiend. Sure, when you’re in the car with me, perfectly safe, it’s all about the speed limit - but if you’re about to get your head chopped off, apparently you’re fine!” He snorts and replaces himself back down half on top of Aziraphale, snaking impossibly closer. “Don’t know what to make of you sometimes.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun if I was an open book now, would it?” replies the angel cheekily and smiles in satisfaction when he feels the rumble of Crowley’s dry laugh somewhere near his nipple. They dip back into the soft silence for a while, lost in the cooling bedsheets tangled up wildly all around them. Aziraphale miracles them clean, and then rubs his now-dry thighs together a bit to see how much of the soreness he’s going to be dealing with. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Alright?” asks Crowley, voice on edge again.

Aziraphale reaches up to smooth those edges back down. His fingers press up against the demon’s neck, sliding the thumb where he knows the nervous knots always form at the base of his shoulders. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures. 

“If it still hurts I could--” Crowley starts - predictably. 

“What? Miracle it?” It’s a logical enough step, but there’s something to it that feels like cheating. “On the contrary,” observes the angel out loud, “I’m rather looking forward to... how do you put it? ‘Still feeling it in the morning’. You’re rather fond of that, aren’t you?”

The responding noise borders frustration and arousal. “Angel, you can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale takes the time to roll a bit closer, fighting off a blush at being so frank. “I’m very satisfied with our experimentation, you know. I thought I made myself quite clear. I enjoyed it.”

Crowley is doing no better at fighting off the red from his own skin. “Ngk,” he voices uselessly and edges closer, as if still unsure. “I figured. But you--... I mean... ‘s not too much?”

“It was, entirely,” Aziraphale chuckles. “Too much, all at once. But that’s lovely in its own way, my dear. And besides - I thought that was rather the point of all this.” He gestures vaguely behind Crowley’s ear and then threads his fingers back into red hair. Their foreheads press together. “Defying limits. Exploring the unexplored. Biting off more than you can chew.”

“Point of what?” Crowley asks, but there’s the knowing warmth of a smile just behind his twitching lips. 

“Leaving the garden,” murmurs Aziraphale in response. 

Crowley kisses him through a smile.

And, like always, it’s too much - but that’s the point.

And Aziraphale must admit - he rather likes it. 


End file.
